


Redolence

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Finch!whump, First Kiss, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know how to tag this thing, M/M, Mild Gore, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, case fic? sort of?, more towards moderate violence but the warning just in case, that's pretty much the entire fic right there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 17:48:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14290113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: A warm drop of liquid falls onto his cheek and rolls down across his lips and Harold tastes salt but nothing metallic. A tear. It’s not his own.John.





	Redolence

**Author's Note:**

> So, uhm. My second fic of non-linear nonsense. Which I hope you'll be able to somehow make sense of? *runs away and hides because I don't even know what this fic is*

Barely suppressing a noise of pain, he opens his eyes to the sight of white and red. Blood creeps across the fabric, spreading, spreading, reaching the edge of the bed and running down, following the call of gravity. The only stain, the only fault on the linen, linen that is bright and crisp, freshly ironed and only minutes before had been without a single crease or stain. Pure white, like the thick carpet pressing creases into Harold’s cheek.

The sweet scent of the roses is hanging thick in the air. Cloying, even with the howling of the wind outside and the cold breeze coming through the broken window. The light overhead is warm and spilling glittering reflections on the glass shards. _Those will be a pain to remove from the carpet_ , he thinks hazily and chases the useless thought away.

Above him, only just far away for its edges to blur from Harold’s nearsightedness, a slim hand hangs over the edge of the bed, unmoving. A tendril of red runs over pale skin, down a delicate wrist. It clings just for a moment, then it falls. Small and bright red, a stain on the white carpet. Life spilled, like so much ink.

* * *

“I’m on my way, Finch, just stay where you are!”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, we’ve run out of time.”

He thinks he hears John curse quietly on the other end of the line. The wind picks up, storm clouds brewing above. Harold wraps his coat tighter around himself and steps onto the street.

* * *

Ha hates the sharp smell of antiseptic, hates the sense memory of starched hospital sheets and agony in his neck and Nathan’s slack face just before the nurse covers it, the steady tone of the medical equipment alerting everyone that his only friend’s heart will never beat again. Hates the nightmares that inevitably follow.

But now he only wishes it could drown out the smell of blood and roses clinging to him, sweet and metallic and making him nauseous with every breath. He doesn’t hiss, doesn’t so much as grimace at the sting of the antiseptic against his forehead. Instead, he closes his eyes and pretends that he doesn’t lean into John’s careful touch. Breathes and pretends he doesn’t want to be sick.

* * *

“Please, Ms Monroe. I can help you, but we _have_ to leave right now. I can take you to a safer location while my associate takes care of this matter. I promise, you will be able to come back in a few hours.”

She frowns, tilting her head, studying him. Weighing his words, and he already knows they aren’t enough when her frown deepens. She shakes her head, still more in contemplation than as an answer, but he knows that answer will follow and it will be _no_.

“Please.” he tries again. He isn’t quite sure what he intends to say to convince her, perhaps that he needs her to trust him, or maybe further proof of the danger she is in, but he never gets the chance. There are footsteps on the latticework of the fire escape staircase, and a fraction of a second later the glass of her window shatters.

* * *

The second ring of the doorbell goes unnoticed as well. Harold spends a second deliberating a third one, then reminds himself that there isn’t time, pulling out his lock-picking kit and crouching down. Trying not to remember too vividly the feeling of John’s hand covering his own when he taught him. The lock relents with a soft click.

* * *

His eyes fix on the speck of blood, focussing on it so his gaze won’t trail upwards to the hand it fell from. Stares at it, even if more red is encroaching on his vision, the spreading stains on the linen above and the carpet beneath, and doesn’t stop staring until the small drop is swallowed up by the larger stain. Only now does he look away, if only to avoid being all too acutely aware that the blood steadily seeping into the carpet is his own.

He refuses to look at the deadly still hand hanging over the edge of the bed, so his eyes find the closest rose petal. One of the pink ones, fresh and lively against the white carpet, though deceptively so. Torn from its flower, it is as dead as the slim hand of one Alyssa Monroe.

Now that he focuses on the petal, the smell of roses becomes nauseating.

* * *

“Morning Finch.”

“Good morning, Mr Reese.” he answers, significantly less cheerful, but John’s smile doesn’t dim for even a moment. Some part of him is relieved it doesn’t.

Harold opts to distract himself by taking the secretly anticipated cup of sencha green from John’s hand and the first sip is as perfect as he has come to expect it to be. John sets the box of donuts down on the desk, takes one for himself and bites into it. Sweet, red frosting clings to the edge of his lips and Harold itches to reach out and wipe it away _or kiss it away_. Turning away to hide whatever traces of this ludicrous, unwelcome, inappropriate thought might show on his expression, Harold picks up the freshly printed photo and a piece of scotch tape before walking towards the glass board.

“Our new number. Alyssa Monroe, 23 years old, born and raised in the Midwest but moved here almost 18 months ago. She has a small apartment in Queens and supports herself by means of two waitressing, a cashier’s and a babysitting job...”

* * *

“Harold?”

Gradually, his consciousness returns, though he doesn’t quite register the uncharacteristically panicked voice calling his name. Not over the cloying sweetness of the roses. He hasn’t even managed to open his eyes, yet the world already feels as though it is spinning around him. The smell has him wishing he had the strength to turn on his side and throw up.

“Harold, _please_...”

Frantic hands are running over his body, shoving his coat aside, finding their way underneath his jacket, fumbling across his waistcoat. Feeling for injuries, some distant part of himself supplies.

A warm drop of liquid falls onto his cheek and rolls down across his lips and Harold tastes salt but nothing metallic. A tear. It’s not his own.

 _John_.

* * *

John’s grip on him is tight as they walk from the car to the library. Not unpleasantly so – on any other day, Harold might have even enjoyed this – but startling in the contrast to John’s usual gentleness with him. He wonders if John is angry. _He should be_ , he thinks, it’s Harold’s fault that Alyssa Monroe’s body is now cooling on the crisp, white, bloodstained sheets of her own bed. That she isn’t spending her anniversary with her boyfriend, but in the company of the detectives and forensic scientists documenting the crime scene until she can be sent to the morgue.

“Come on.” John murmurs into his hair with all the gentleness that is missing from his grip. “Let’s get you inside.”

No, not anger, he decides. More as though John is afraid of losing him if he didn’t hold on so tightly.

Harold cannot seem to stop smelling the roses. The _blood_.

* * *

“… and it seems that Mr Jacobs hasn’t stopped harassing her even two years after she ended their relationship, which is what finally prompted her to move to New York.”

Hearing John’s tense breath, a small ache tugs at Harold’s heart, as much as he tries to ignore it. He knows he cannot protect John from cases involving abusive relationships, knows he can trust him because there is so doubt in his mind that his partner will handle this number as formidably as he does all the others. No, the problem is Harold’s, and his as desperate as it is unrealistic longing to ensure that John knows nothing but happiness because that is the very least he deserves.

A moment later, it is him who takes a sharp breath.

“Everything okay, Finch?”

“I found footage of Mr Jacobs near a construction site that reported the theft of a not insignificant amount of plastic explosive two nights ago.” A few keystrokes later, and more footage confirms Harold’s theory. “He has been casing the apartment of Ms Monroe’s boyfriend last night. I’ll text you the address.”

“Okay. Can you keep an eye on Alyssa?”

“Of course. I’m on my way.” His hip twinges in protest as he gets up as fast as it will allow, walking around his desk and grabbing his coat. “And Mr Reese? Please be careful!”

“You too, Harold.” is the answer he receives, so quietly that he isn’t sure whether he was even supposed to hear it.

* * *

“Run.” he hisses at Ms Monroe as he takes a limping step in front of her, putting himself between her and Mr Jacobs. Between her and the threateningly raised crowbar that broke her window into glittering shards, strewing them among the pink and red rose petals covering the entire room.

The moment she takes a step towards the door, Harold is roughly shoved aside, the crowbar connecting with his bad leg and then his forehead and immediately, black spots dance in his vision. Black among white and red and pink, only it is the black ones that spread and he cannot stop them even as Ms Monroe cries out in fear and pain.

His legs give out and his awareness catches on a petal, looking unnaturally bright against the white carpet. And then the black spots close around it and take over the entirety of his vision and the last thing he is aware of before his consciousness slips away is its smell.

* * *

John doesn’t say a word as he carefully leads Harold outside – the constant breeze through the broken window has left him feeling frozen to the bone but there nonetheless is nothing he wants more than fresh air, anything to get away from the sweetness in the apartment’s air. They step across the fallen Mr Jacobs and Harold isn’t entirely sure whether he is dead or alive. He has no intention of checking, not after he saw Ms Monroe’s body.

The moment they step out of the building, icy rain hits Harold’s face. It makes him shiver, makes his head throb and the world spin around him and he helplessly leans into John for a moment, hoping for the nausea to recede. There is a speck of colour in one of the puddles, a shape distorted with every raindrop against the surface, yet unmistakable. A rose petal, bright red against the concrete, like a drop of ink, a drop of blood.

His steps are unsteady as he begins to walk again, but he _needs_ to get _away_. John just wordlessly pulls him closer, keeps him steady and upright and for the briefest of moments, a hint of his aftershave cuts into the scent of cloying sweetness Harold’s senses refuse to shake.

* * *

“Excuse me.” John’s voice comes softly over the earpiece the moment the surveillance feed shows him deliberately bumping into Ms Monroe. The half a dozen bouquets of roses she is carrying fall to the ground and John quickly bends to help her pick them up. A moment later, an alert on Harold’s computer confirms that their number’s phone has been successfully cloned.

“Someone’s lucky.” John tells her with a disarming smile and the number smiles back shyly.

“It’s my boyfriend’s and my first anniversary.”

“Congratulations!”

Harold watches him nod a quick goodbye before he turns away, while Harold already skims through the number’s text messages.

* * *

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know who exactly he is apologising to as John drives them back to the library, back home. His voice sounds hollow to himself, as hollow as the words because something as simple as sorry could never encompass the sense of failure, the grief and numbness and quiet horror.

“I should have thought to pursue that lead sooner, I should have realised that he would come after her as well, after all statistically speaking, most obsessive, abusive people will eventually become violent towards the object of their affections, so this really shouldn’t have come as anything close to a surprise, and if I...”

John’s hand wraps around his, skin calloused, and cold and wet from the rain. John, who isn’t looking at him, still isn’t speaking, but nonetheless provides the anchor Harold needs as his world spins around him, as he cannot take a breath because with every inhale there is the sickening sweetness.

* * *

There is a clink behind him that finally distracts him from the pink petal – now almost entirely awash with red, that is how far Harold’s blood has seeped into the once white carpet – and the pounding of his heart makes his head throb and the black spots in his vision return to dance to the beat. John will be here any minute now, not knowing what he will be walking into, not knowing Mr Jacobs is still present and Harold ought to warn him but he doesn’t know if he can even move without losing consciousness again.

And then there is the sound of a gun’s magazine being released, presumably to reload – and that he is so familiar with such sounds should probably be a discomforting thought – and that decides it. Slowly, hoping not to be detected, he moves his arm, reaches for his phone, biting down on any noise of pain trying to escape the enamel cage of his teeth. It’s futile. He doesn’t know what exactly it is that gives him away, but footsteps near quickly, audible despite the thick, white carpet and there is a flash of dark metal stained with red and the crowbar sends a pulse of agony through his head. Mr Jacobs raises it again – stained with both Harold’s blood and Ms Monroe’s – but he is unconscious before he can feel the next hit.

He never hears Mr Jacobs drop the crowbar, never sees him finish loading the gun or pointing it at Harold’s head, releasing the safety. He doesn’t hear the still open door of the apartment being kicked open, doesn’t know that this is the picture John comes upon when he enters – Harold, lying with his own blood pooling underneath his head and unmoving, with the body of their number lying on the bed and the perpetrator aiming his weapon at Harold’s head – doesn’t hear the gunshot, not from Mr Jacobs’ gun but from John, firing a bullet that tears through the offending arm. Harold doesn’t hear Mr Jacobs’ scream or the snap of his bones under John’s expert hands, nor does he hear the dry, panicked, devastated sob John lets out once the threat is dealt with.

* * *

The wind picks up once again, from a different direction now, whipping the rain through the air. The water splashes as they walk through the puddles and the single, delicate, too bright rose petal is crushed beneath John’s step. Another gust, and a new one is swept up from the apartment above, dances among the raindrops for a moment before falling, falling, settling down in another puddle somewhere to Harold’s left. Bright, blood-red against concrete. He stares until John gently tugs him along towards the car.

* * *

Carefully – the white, sterile gauze pad a pleasant temperature due to the warm water it’s soaked in – John cleans the last of the blood from Harold’s face, gently tugs a few dried clots from his hair. Harold opens his eyes to the sight of John gathering up all used gauze, letting it drop into the paper bin beneath the desk. Red on white fabric. _Life spilled like so much ink_ , he thinks, trying not to look at the way John’s hands are now beginning to shake, the way his eyes seem too bright and teary.

John stands halfway between Harold and the desk for a moment, looking impossibly lost. Then, with two large strides, he is back at Harold’s side, sinking to his knees in front of him. Raising one hand, reaching out to where Harold feels there still must be remnants of his blood clinging to his skin, reaching out as if to touch, only to let his hand hover uncertainly and then drop it back to his side.

“I thought I lost you.” The words are quiet, sound as though John must be painfully forcing them out. His voice trembles, then breaks. “When I… When I walked into that room and saw you on the floor. With him holding a gun to your head, and you were bleeding so much...” A sob interrupts him, a tear rolls down his cheek and Harold remembers the taste of salt. “I… For a moment, I thought you were...”

John’s hand finds his once more, holding on, and perhaps it’s Harold now who provides the anchor. Or maybe it’s both of them.

“I can’t lose you, Harold.” Nothing but a broken, hoarse whisper, but there is the simplicity of stating an unshakeable fact in it. “I can’t lose you. Not _you_.”

John looks… shelled. Broken open and vulnerable and skinned. Like pink flesh, like the red of a heart, open and bare and placed into Harold’s hands, with all its blood, red like rose petals. And Harold _understands_.

He feels separated from his own body, distanced from his own actions when he gently pulls John near and kisses his lips, where the red frosting clung to them just this morning. He tastes the salty tears now. John sobs again, kisses him back oh so carefully, just for a moment before drawing back. They both know that this is not the time for this, but there _will be_. It’s John who pulls him close this time, not for another kiss, just close. Harold allows himself to fall forward and hide his face in the crook of John’s neck, winds his arms around John’s waist and relaxes minutely when John’s arms wrap around him in return. He lets John sob into his hair in between soft kisses. Lets himself breathe into John’s skin, smelling the library and John and _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for putting up with my weird writing and reading this to the end! I'm impressed :P I really hope you enjoyed it, and that you migh leave me a comment? Comments are my lifeblood!


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